Contest One Shots
by ChuckTheElf
Summary: A reserve area for the various one-shots I utilize as contest entries for multiple areas. I write what I like, and if I get to have fun, why don't you? No particular order, just random one-shots from all over.
1. Neville's Summer Adventure

With all the suave reflexes of an expert duelist, Harry lowered a single shoulder, lifting it up again to drop the other. Pellets, fired from some inane modified 'pea shooter' developed by a deranged wizard, passed through the spaces. An easy rotation, and the bracketing shots fired in the reverse direction passed before and behind his hips, resulting in the surprised cries both ahead and behind.

A smile crossed his lips. The Express was a good method for training reaction times. The Twins were especially good, if asked politely.

Just ahead, a door slammed open. Only his superb responses allowed him to dodge a boy roughly his age, whom lunged out of the carriage. Strange gelatin covered his hair and dripped down his shoulders, turning a white-blonde into a dirty yellow. It seemed extremely sticky too, ripping strands every time his hands touched the formerly long locks.

Harry's eyebrows lifted. "Malfoy?"

Bloodshot eyes snapped to his face. "Potter. Do _not_ go in there. He's a menace!"

Harry watched the young boy struggle to his feet, arms spread like a denuded waterfowl, only to collapse as the door shot open once more, and his two associates fell over each other, smashing Malfoy into the floor once more. Their clothing shared a similar sheen, with the added benefit of a wondrously repugnant oder.

Carefully, Harry stepped around the pile of convulsing revulsion. He peeked through the glass partition, cast an astonished glance down at the trio, and stepped inside.

Within, a slightly chubby young man fussed over a drooping plant, making worried clucking noises.

"Neville?"

Intelligent eyes came up, focused on Harry, then dismissed his presence. "Oh, hullo. You wouldn't happen to have any malenclaw clippings, would you?"

"Not in this pair of trousers …." Harry responded slowly.

The young man's nose wrinkled. "No matter. I'll make do with what I have. They should make it to Hogwarts after today.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Today?"

He didn't have to be a Seer to observe the faint twitch crossing Neville's face. Memory recall was a renowned science, if one paid attention to details.

 _5:25 AM, Hall of Passage_

 _Ministry Building_

"Hurry, Neville," Lady Longbottom stepped faster through the crowd. "The train leaves in a few hours, and we must be ready. Remember: enunciate clearly, and _do not_ lose your new wand."

"Yes Gran," Neville responded. His eyes never left the incredibly rare plant specimen in his hands, donated for his research by the eccentric member of his family.

Suddenly, he felt a push. His plant, the _mimblus mimbletonia_ jolted out of his hands, landing on a single edge of the pot. Unbreakable charms were laid, but it still made his heart leap into his throat. "No!"

Out of the corner of one eye he saw a strange wizard that had been walking through the ministry, Ozwald had it been? His older siblings kept calling him 'Ozzie'. There was a famous wizarding family in the Colonies, the Oz clan, he could recall. But this 'Ozzie' was chasing a small rodent that seemed to – clink – as it ran. The rodent bounced off the plant pot, sending it rolling towards the Floos.

"No Petey! Don't run, I found us some saxaphones _!_ _Saxaphones_ Petey! It'll be great!"

Neville ignored the strange wizard and took off after his plant. The discus underside balanced perfectly, just as a witch stepped out of a floo, smacking the plant back into the middle of the Ministry. He redoubled his pace, catching up as it lost momentum. This time it slipped into a green-lit floo, a fire that roared as an entire bowl of powder fell into its depths – knocked into place by the fleet-footed representative of _rodentia_.

" _Neville!"_ he heard his grandmother shriek. "Be careful!"

He had just enough time to dive after the plant, seizing the rim with two fingers. For a moment, he relaxed, feeling the fuzzy sensation of green fire tickle his hand. Redoubling his grip, he turned his head back. "Sure, Gran!"

The fire whirled, sucking him into its innards faster than a speeding Snitch. He could feel his precious vegetation still present under the strength of his fingertips, but the jostling motion tugged. Neville redoubled his efforts, streamlining his legs, retracting his other hand by the elbow so the fist held an aerodynamic profile by his chest. Gritting his teeth, he willed himself to move faster. Faster. _Faster_. And in response, the edges of the flowerpot became more solid in his grasp.

There were side effects, though.

Neville shot out of the exit Floo, travelling many times faster than the safety threshold. His school clothes, donned early by Gran's insistence, reacted to the intentional-accidental magic by shifting to their dark blue coloration – and the floo fire itself barely had a chance to begin its green coloration. The end result had Neville launch from the Surinam Botanical Conservatory in blue, a cape of crimson flame rippling back from his shoulders.

"It's a bird!" He heard one wizard exclaim – but the next thing he heard was the smashing of glass as he flew through the protective barriers.

The plant seized the opportunity to slip out of touch, floating a bare inch beyond his fingertips. Intent upon regaining his hold, Neville ignored the long fall over open jungle below, ignored the dozens of wizards clustering around the hole he'd punched through the Conservatory shields and concentrated with all his might.

Bare fractions of a centimeter closed between his hand and the enchanted protections. Then Neville happened to look a little higher – and became angry. A burst of power edged him a little higher than expected, drifting the plant into his face, touching a sap-covered portion into his mouth. Above, the hungry avian tried to dive at Neville, claws extended, power shining in its eyes.

The plant, squeezed by the faintest touch of his hand, sent a drop of its fluid into the bird's eye. The bird reacted, back-winging in terror, sending feathers flying everywhere.

It just so happened that the Greater Sky-hawk, known to ornithologists everywhere as _Aves Pila Deluxe_ , possessed a unique defense mechanism, and feathers commonly used as a component of Floo powder. When assaulted, it molted in seconds, rather than days, leaving just the minimum for flight. It would regenerate within hours, but potential predators were blinded by the barrage of glittering, burr-like edged feathers. Consequently, Neville received an inadvertent attack he did not expect.

" _Dattebayo! Dat boyd!_ "Neville spat out the taste of sap, along with a pair of feathers. "Bad bird!"

He shook his be-featherd head, pulling the plant closer, to keep it safe. A gentle thumping came from his feet, as he landed, a tiny trail of smoke coming up from his boot heel.

"Great," he glanced around. "Where did that floo take me?"

Had Neville looked behind, he would have seen a precipice, the edge of a volcanic cliff. Lava churned beneath the ledge, bare inches from his heels. _Pila_ feathers, stuck to his clothing like a coat, shook in the heat-induced breeze, and the lowest feathers shivered an awkward cadence. A small piece of wood, hardened material snapped off some time in the past, began to glow like charcoal.

"Well," Neville started down the mountain. "No time like the present. Is that a campfire ahead?"

A thin trail of smoke, visible above lush greenery could be seen. Neville admired the plants for a few minutes – when would he have a chance to see such a place again? After a short hour of pure enjoyment, he gave the last native _tentaculum_ a farewell pat. Finding them in the wild? There were only three places in the world hosting native-growth _tentaculum_ , which meant he was either in the Tanzania Reserve, Australia, or Suriname.

"Can't be Australia," Neville murmured. One of the spike-studded vines whistled past his ear, missing an attempt to retrieve the boy. "Plants are too friendly. Tanzania might be the place but – Suriname is possible, too."

Shrugging, the feather-covered boy continued his descent. Monkeys, high above in the treetops shrieked warnings, and in uncoordinated attacks, threw sticks, bits of fruit and detritus at him.

Neville snagged the clippings at once, stuffing them in a Botanist's Friend, gifted by Harry a few short weeks ago. Smiling, he looked up to thank the monkeys – and promptly tripped over some kind of wire strung across the path.

He didn't notice a series of darts pass over his prone figure, or notice how the tree they struck began to melt.

Several minutes later, three falls, and one more angry monkey barrage later, he found himself deeper in the jungle. The feather coating, bedraggled as it was, remained intact. Neville shook at the feathers, making futile efforts. "Huh, this stuff _really_ sticks, doesn't it? Maybe Hermione knows a way? I'll have to ask her when I get back."

His path became more apparent, seldom used if the healthy ground cover gave any indication. Neville took his time, bending often to examine a specimen, infrequently tripping on the strange vines crossing at ankle height. He was getting a little worried about the acrid smell, like wood was burning nearby. Fires were natural in some areas, but neither this place was looking less and less like Tanzania.

Chanting muttered through the dense understory, the sound of a dozen voices crying the same phrase at once.

"People!" Neville hurried on, stepping over the next set of vines. His robe snagged, twisting sideways as something brushed past his arm and cheek. He gave an irritated tug, freeing his robe. "No time for this!"

The chanting grew louder; he couldn't make it out, but the repetition helped guide him; the hills were tall, and the path wound around jungle trees. Dangerous switchbacks almost tricked him into falling off the edge, but it was all in the spirit of fun – he knew. No one would make a trail so dangerous that someone could get _hurt_ , at least, not one so close to public Floo networks.

Neville stopped to catch his breath, admiring a Bird of Paradise. It sang an encouraging song, like Dumbledore's Phoenix. Perhaps the two were related somehow? Paradise seemed incomplete without a Phoenix-like bird connection.

Resuming his walk, Neville failed to notice a badly-placed stick, connected to a vine winding its way up a strangely vertical tree.

He bumped the stick with one knee, and toppled over the edge. A heavy wind brushed the back of his neck, tugging at his robe. But as Neville fell, he saw the campfire below, surrounded by a dancing circle of tribesmen.

Above, the Bird of Paradise blinked, shifting so the Swinging Doom Blade would not shorten its magnificent tail. The thing had touched the feathers of another bird, and would _never_ touch its own.

Neville's _Mimbulus_ tried to escape once more. It slipped onto a vine, but Neville was quick enough to lunge forward, sliding along the branch's length and catch it. The moss was so smooth and deep, he did not notice the rapid-descent.

A strange being fell within the center of tribesmen, covered in feathers and holding an ominous looking object in hand. Darkness covered its face, and whirled around its feet. It seemed to mock their strength, pretending to ignore the clear markings of death on the ground, sneering at the armaments wielded by each warrior. One good stab could destroy a jaguar, but this monster believed itself impervious not only to weapons, but perhaps the witch-doctor's magic as well?

The circle froze – a good sacrifice was one thing. Actually getting what you summoned was something else entirely. As one, two dozen angry pairs of eyes focused on the medicine man responsible for selecting a young maiden everyone had liked, in exchange for some king of occult power no one wanted.

He stepped forwards, hand raised. If it shook, no one would hold it against him – for long.

" _Brother!"_ he called. _"I have summoned you from the depths of nether-lands. Destroy our enemies! Encourage our crops!"_

The monster looked back, unimpressed.

" _Ah – take the women you desire in payment!"_ the medicine man tried again. _"Bring prosperity to our tribe…?"_

The figure started chuckling, repeating a threatening phrase over and over again. No one could understand it – languages of the _daimon_ were not for mortal man to understand. But it obviously could see the young woman tied next to the bonfire. It gestured at her, then at them, then back at her.

" _You want – more?"_ The witch doctor tried translating. This was hard; he was only an apprentice, how should he have known the Ritual of Umulager Slashkilter would work the very first time? They had enough maidens to populate two villages, and they'd been threatening to go on strike if something hadn't been done about it. They were even threatening to get jobs in the nearby city! But was this worth it?

Chortling, the monstrous figure capered around the fire, then fell. Showers of sparks burst skyward, changing an evil green light. There was a brief scream from the young woman tied to the post – at her insistence, she was strange that way – and the monster was gone.

The witch doctor glanced at the circle of angry men, and one very irritated maiden. He resolved to review his manual again as soon as possible. For now, he'd have to talk things out.

" _Well then,"_ he shook the Blessed Rattle. " _Perhaps we could start a cultural exchange? Maybe a café with indigenous dishes?"_

One of the warriors pulled back its mask. He sniffed the air, and spat. _"You say well. My brother-in-law knows a man in the cursed-city-of-money. Cursed it may be, but funding would be easier with help. I'll send him a smoke signal in the morning."_

" _Right."_ The medicine man shuffled. " _Right. Um. We're done for tonight. Could someone untie Walks-With-Hitch-in-Stride? Not you, Strange One."_

Slowly, the village returned to normal.

 _7:45 Hall of Passage_

 _Ministry Building_

Neville spun across the polished floor, clutching his precious plant. The fire had returned his clothes' color back to normal, a relief. Gran was going to be angry enough as it was, having lost his cloak after getting it only a few hours before. Perhaps he could get out his spare before she noticed?

To one side, he saw the strange wizard, rodent in hand, walking rapidly towards a fire. "It's okay Petey. I have you now, my pretty. Let's make beautiful music together!"

The rodent made a brief struggle, but vanished in a flash of green flame.

Sighing, Neville got to his feet. Something … had happened. He was certain of it. But whatever it was ….

"Neville?" Harry snapped his fingers. "Something about today, you said?"

Neville looked back, and shook his head. "Never mind. It's nothing."


	2. Animagus Issues

The moon hung low, its full brightness illuminating the clearing like a floodlight. Rookwood knew of such devices; properly outfitted with engraved Ultra-Violet devices. They proved useful resources against light-sensitive creatures, like vampires and their kin. His own research chamber possessed a dozen such devices, perfect for the study of the supposedly 'immortal' beings.

Immortality was such a – _subjective_ – term, when a simple counter existed.

Ward stones, etched in the blood of things he did not allow himself to remember, glowed a faint silver in the moonlight. Unlike the famed Stonehenge, these were intact, hidden from the muggle tourists and their foolish artifact waving. At dawn they would reflect the blood-red sun, and at noon the incomparable yellow-white incandescence that drove away darkness. Yet this was carefully calculated to not be that time.

A faint burning sensation seared Rookwood's inner forearm. He knelt, one knee on the ground, head lowered in respect. One met his creator in such a fashion, and while Lord Voldermort accepted such a title, he'd granted more power than any mere _Lord_ possessed.

"Augustus."

Shadows rippled within visual range. "My Lord."

A faint presence, an otherworldly sense filled his mind. "Your suggestion."

Rookwood kept his face lowered. "I have liberated a large quantity of research from the Archives. Your gift is unheard of, potentially more powerful than what even the Accords conceived."

Feather-light steps bent the grass blades just out of sight. Only the faint shadow betrayed Voldemort's presence, and a few stray green lengths, bending against the wind. An expectant pause made the wind itself hold its breath.

"I brought the ritual components. If successful you will gain the full breadth of the power, although it requires strength beyond description."

"And if not?"

He shivered at the veiled menace, wrapped in silky tones of command. "The penalty falls upon the oath-giver. In this case, I secured the word of a colleague undergoing treatment in St. Mungo's, then Oblivated her."

A faint sensation of pleasure trickled down the back of his spine. He'd always been more sensitive to his Master's moods; likely a result of the training undergone. Mind Arts were a vague field, even after millennia of study. Master and Apprentice often shared a certain empathy years after their association terminated. Here, he hoped it would not prove detrimental to the task at hand.

"I see." A pause stretched long enough for Rookwood to begin employing the legendary mental discipline for which he'd become famed in certain circles.

Dark boots, made of unidentifiable hide, stopped within his field of vision. "Well done. I have studied this process at length, and it seems the most likely. You are prepared to begin?"

He wasted no time speaking.

Coarse brushes, hairs dark and reflective, painted ritual markings on the wide flat stone Rookwood had brought. Freshly quarried limestone mined from an abandoned repository came cheap, even cheaper than the exotic feathers the ritual required. The Ancients did not have access to international Portals, or Muggles willing to devote swaths of land to domesticating every kind of avian known to exist.

"Your robe, milord."

Voldemort looked down on him, chiseled visage high against the moon. Dark hair and solemn eyes bespoke hidden tragedy, as did a minute scar along one high cheekbone. A gift from the Prewett twins in their last engagement – Bellatrix had vowed revenge for that. In silence, the face turned away, dark robes of acromantula silk cascading to the grass. A quick gesture sent the priceless garments over a convenient branch outside the circle taking shape.

Rookwood brought out a new brush. This one was smaller, fine hairs made from the downy feathers of juvenile specimens, freshly hatched. "This took ten minutes five seconds in my trial run. We must begin the ritual as the moon reaches its zenith. Then it will occur. It will be painful."

A sardonic smile broke over his master's handsome visage. "Pain and I are old friends. On occasion we even grant each other outlets for our goals. Begin."

Firm, deliberate strokes painted the concoction on pale skin. Muscles, firm from rituals even he remained ignorant, flexed like goblin-forged chains under impervious skin. Rookwood had seen goblin steel slice the man's arm in two, and regenerate in less than a day. Truly his Master's power knew no bounds.

The brush danced higher, drawing symbols half-known solely by their common placement in old texts. Rookwood did not look upwards, distractions would require repeated efforts. There was time, but not enough for a major error.

"I am finished, milord."

Voldemort closed his eyes, sending a pulse of magic through the drying layers. The semi-fluid grew bone-dry in an instant, something that should not have been possible. He offered no explanation, rising in denuded glory – the sight did not excite Rookwood as he knew it would someone like Bellatrix; but the effect was similar to that of a demigod taking his rightful place. A faint glow from the stones enhanced the effect, granting a harsh light against the silver rays descending from above.

Rookwood fell back as the moon rose. Minutes drifted by, cloying fractions of time, insistent on making their presence known before lost for eternity.

A faint noise jerked his attention back to the center. Voldemort's face, normally serene or focused in rage, now contorted in unfamiliar fashion.

Rookwood glanced at his notes. "Try to change now. We should know in a few moments."

Pain-filled eyes glanced his way, then … _changed._

A wolf stood in the stone circle's center. Silver hair, long and luxurious flowed from quaffle-sized shoulders to a tail longer than Rookwood's arm. A triumphant howl erupted skywards, cut off at its height in a choking growl.

Rookwood stared as the wolf shifted. Hair receded into the body, growing backwards as it were. Two forelimbs shrank, legs in the hindquarters growing muscle at stupendous rates. The shift stopped as a strange creature balanced on powerful legs and a long tail twitched rabbit-like ears at the moon. It started to hop when the change occurred once more.

This time Rookwood backed away. A snake, its middle wider than three of himself, rose in a coil, towering over the stones perimeter. For a brief instant, a victorious look came into cold reptilian eyes before fading as the change forced itself over the entire form once more.

Sighing, Rookwood sagged to the ground, waiting. The being inside the ritual circle rotated through creature after creature, slowing the shift at times, but never stopping. The longest pause occurred during the phase where a miniature dragon seemed to strain every muscle to break free of the paralysis layer inside the circle. It had raised his hopes; if Lord Voldemort could take the form of a dragon, no matter how small, there were countless rituals that could enhance everything from size to flame breath potency. Their enemies would quail at the knowledge alone, their most powerful magical foe could become nigh invincible to magic, and eat them as well?

As the moon sank, the enforced changes halted. A lone human figure panted in the center of the ritual circle, regaining his breath.

Rookwood gathered clothes and potions, entering the circle once the ward stones faded again. He placed them at his master's side, retreated three steps and knelt once more.

The whisper of silk, soon followed by the gulping sounds of a potion bottle being drained, let him know his Master did not consider him a threat for failure. The thought of being unsuccessful drove a pain through his mind, an iron spike in the center of his very being.

"It failed."

He winced again. "It is my fault, Milord. My life in payment for this failure."

"Your fault, for my sheer potential?" an amused tone entered Voldemort's voice. "You are intelligent, Augustus. But I doubt you are so capable as to take responsibility for what I am. No, I remain extraordinary, my magic is no less a reflection of myself. In time I will master this little problem. A hundred forms for one individual will be a crowning achievement. After I subdue the rabble."

Relief coursed through his veins. "You are gracious, Lord."

"Indeed," sardonic amusement rumbled through Voldemort's tone. "We may try this again, after the next raid. Seek out another Oath giver, perhaps one with more will. I felt the strength of the Ritual reduce half-way through. Perhaps next time …."

"Yes," Rookwood rose at a commanding gesture. "Yes my lord. You will surely master all of these forms next time.


	3. Hermione's Beaded Bag

It sat on the table, inverted and inside out. Fine stitching, threads of an alloy she'd researched exhaustively for months vanished and reappeared in tiny bursts of reflected light. The fabric itself contracted around the fine metallic strands, a natural component inherent in Velgalden. Once Hermione had learned of the plant's relation to the Wiggentree, she knew she'd found her base material.

Carefully, her needle wound back into the fabric, stitching a _futhark_ rune. _Raidō,_ which looked like a cotter pin in her opinion, promoted durability in travel. Implementing it every three sequences with _þurisaz_ 's angular lines enhanced the fabric's strength and flexibility over a thousand times, if worked right.

A popping noise barely caught her attention – this was too important!

Her needle dove into the fabric, leaping in and out like a silver dolphin. The needle itself carried the best enchantments available, plus a few suggested improvements devised by herself. Madame Malkin seemed out of sorts when refused the prototype as payment – did special orders _really_ cost that much? – but the security was worth it in Hermione's opinion.

A soft clearing of a throat, somewhere around knee level made a tiny whistling noise as it passed her un-hearing ear. Absently, she tucked a flyaway hair in place, watching the needle perform a complex duel-stitch, blending two sequences together in the first of what would be seven sets of three triangles. Each grouping wrapped itself around the bag, a serpentine pattern precisely calculated for elastic effect.

"Great Master Harry Potter's Grangy Be Listening Now!"

Hermione jerked, needle freezing mid dive. "Dobby! What are you doing here?"

The small house elf cocked his head to one side. A basket lay on the floor at his side, lumps protruding against its cover-cloth. Bulbous eyes focused on her face. "Dobby's been getting your things, just like youse requested! Youse needs to be eating now. Great Master Harry Potter's Grangy is not a house elf. She needs to be eatings!"

Hermione bent back over the material. "Soon, Dobby. I need to finish this before the moon rises. The best results come from –"

"Moon will not affect cloth," Dobby's head whipped sideways, ears flapping in denial. "Why would it? Great Master Harry Potter's Grangy be readings too much."

Irritation raised her voice, unintentionally. "What are you talking about? Madame Tousseau's _Guide for Sewing_ clearly states that lunar cycles may add ten percent to a Benjamin Corsican expansion charm!"

Tiny hands rested on slim hips. "Dobby's made Bags of Hiding. Moon is in the sky. Bag is on the ground."

Hermione's irritation vanished. "You have? When? How many? Do you know why there's a center-stitch over the dart? Wouldn't a gathering help the expansion more?"

Dobby shrank back, eyes widening.

"Oh, I'm sorry." Hermione caught herself. Aggravating an already unstable individual was not an intelligent thing to do. If there was any word to describe her, it was intelligent. "Could you show me how?"

The little figure peered up at her towering height. "Perhaps …? But No Dobby! Bad Dobby!"

Hermione, familiar enough with the elf's odd behavior through tales from Harry, caught the spindly-limbed individual as he threw himself at the wall. "It's alright Dobby. I'll figure it out myself. You don't have too –"

"No!" Dobby's eyes grew larger. "Great Master Harry Potter's Grangy mustn't! Old Family Secret. Dobby knowings the how, but cannot speaks of it!"

Hermione growled under her breath. "But the charms are in textbooks, how to expand rooms and things?"

Dobby's eyes bulged. "But it _does!_ It _does_ do the makes bigs!"

A headache twinged its warning symptoms at the side of Hermione's temples. "I thought you said –"

She stopped. Something was familiar.

"Dobby," Hermione began, more cautiously. She could see his ears lift a little. "If you could perhaps use this pillowcase, and … practice? If you want, I can … _supervise_?"

"Great Master Harry Potter's Grangy is _clever_ ," Dobby breathed. How he managed the sentence in one breath, she had no idea. "If Dobby's needings to be watchesd, they has to be competence. Great Master Harry Potter's Grangy's the most competanced witch Dobby can be thinkings of!"

Hermione felt the headache fade a little. "Well, thank you Dobby. Could we start – I mean, could _you_ start now?"

A wide grin threatened to break the little elf's face. "The bestest start is with the Sables Chicken's stitches. Nothings breaks that."

Hermione watched carefully, plans simmering behind her mind. The full focus of her intellect remained focused on the elf's careful motions, showing her exactly how the supposed 'experts' managed to delude the entire wizarding population with substandard efforts. Block _her_ from knowledge? After this bag, she would have to look into breaking the monopoly. After they'd beaten Voldemort, of course. And managed a safe escape too. Perhaps started a political campaign, although this would create funds for it as well.

Narrowing her gaze, she absorbed every detail. First things first: making a special surprise that _no one_ would anticipate her having.


	4. Ravenclaw Tactics

Terry Boot loved puzzles. The thrill of comprehending the logic another mind created, of discovering the intricate methodology behind what another considered challenging. Logic, spatial, sequential – all of them held a special place in his heart. It was similar to how potion prodigies behaved; Terry considered himself an adequate student of potions. There would be no stellar innovations under his watch, nor a reputation for anything other than – _adequate._

That was precisely what he wanted. A _glamour_ over the piece other players wished to use.

"Hey Boot, how's the essay coming?"

Terry gave a polite smile to fellow Ravenclaw Padma Patil; attractive enough in her own way, and intelligent. "Decent enough. I need another three inches, but incorporating moonstone powder'll take care of that. How about you?"

The Indian rolled her eyes. "Finished, a half inch over. Parcati says Granger is over two feet over, but that's par for the course."

His eyebrows rose. "Golf phrases? Has Someone been spending time with a certain Goldstein? The one whom's family owns four courses in the United Kingdom alone?"

A blush turned her deeply tanned cheeks even darker. "Effective communication requires comprehension of basic viewpoints. He often uses sports metaphors."

Boot let his smirk grow wide. "Certainly. Speaking of which, is that him at the door?"

Padma whirled, robes twisting in her haste. "Tony?"

Her glare promised fury when it returned, empty, to Terry's face.

"Oops," he pulled a perfectly innocent face. "My mistake."

The edge of her hard-soled boots _accidentally_ stomped on his foot as she left in what could only be described as a huff.

Terry smiled after her retreating form. She was a good friend, so he took liberty now and again. If her eye hadn't been settled on Goldstein, he might have tried his luck. His reputation would ensure a modest level of interest, if not more. But that would not suit his purposes. Romance held a certain allure – he had to pause for a moment, inwardly chuckling at the veela humor – but nothing would come of it now. Best to stay on track.

Once her back had retreated above the female staircase, he resumed his musings. Falling behind on Potions essay-writing was an unfortunate side-effect of multi-tasking. That, in turn, based itself on a major issue within Wizarding Society proper. Namely, the unequal social strata encouraged by unfair business practices, enforced through a convoluted system of labyrinthine qualities. The higher ranked purebloods held on to their power with binding spells, defensive wards and dragon patrols, if they were imaginative enough.

But that took him back to the point for his next decision. What spell to use?

Silently, he triggered a silencing ward. The book he'd enspelled flickered to life, lifting to address him.

" _As I was saying: The Cruciatus is known for two reasons: Its creation of absolute pain, and its status as one of the Three Unforgiveables. Users of this curse renders those who dare utilize its unparalleled capacity to induce pain, to pay a price._ "

Terry nodded thoughtfully. "Indeed. We must be intelligent about this. I would not rule out the Unforgiveables completely, however."

The book flipped a few pages. "Agreed. Circumstances may arise requiring their use. But not now. Stipulate the Target's specifics."

"Lucian Bole," he recited, "Sixth year. Betrothal contract to Leslie Urquhart, worth fifteen thousand galleons. Quick reflexes, has a reputation for instant retaliation with as many Dark curses as he can. Good spatial-awareness, Beater for Slytherin team, excellent physical capacity. Paranoid around food and dark hallways, never goes anywhere alone at night."

The text dipped acknowledgement. " _On the surface, an excellent choice. But a Slytherin as the initial subject could initiate defenses for future targets. When you do target the Slytherins, it will need to be a multiple hit, as many as possible before they turtle up."_

Terry tapped his fingers on the chair's arm. "Ravenclaw has three such targets, but that would ensure suspicion falls on my house. Hufflepuff holds two, Gryffindor two. The easiest would be Ravenclaw, but I don't want to go that direction quite yet – besides which, the Betrothal contracts are set to trigger at the end of the school year, for those graduating. Standard clause."

 _"Hmm,"_ the book dropped a few inches, rustling irritated pages. _"Time limits. So constricting. There are the Winter Holidays …?"_

"It took me this long to gain the training I need. Would a First or Second Year be able to cover his tracks so well?"

Just inside the borders of the privacy spell, the fire crackled. It lent an air of calm to his thoughts, as if the entire talk were occurring in the open. No one suspected the Domes of Silence that appeared in the Ravenclaw Common Room. As a group, Ravenclaws enjoyed being able to see everyone, yet shut them out at the same time. Unlike Slytherins, whom preferred to see and not be seen, they also enjoyed flaunting knowledge – such as advanced Privacy spells. Roger Davies, for example, currently held the record for most powerful Disassociation Charm, after his debacle with that Tri-Wizard Champion not long before. The display had earned back much of the social capital lost due to his lack of self-control.

 _"What of redirected efforts?"_ His thoughts rebounded from the book's still pages. He'd enchanted the book to react as he would, but in the most logical, rational manner. The illusion of its movement was a nice touch, interaction without actually interacting. _"Instigating an explosion of temper, a crime of passion?"_

"Plausible, once." Terry acknowledged. "The least suspicion would require already-known enemies. Mixing an _Ira Ignis_ with something reducing inhibition, an Elixir of Recklessness?"

 _"Better yet, induce the act within the Target's circle of influence. In this case, Slytherin on Slytherin. Two Target's, one spell. Your grandfather would be proud."_

The thought sent a warm feeling down Terry's heart. "Yes, he would. But it's good only once – unless I made it appear to be a decaying of alliances? Voldemort's rise is making tempers flare. It wouldn't take much to fan the flames."

 _"Cassius Warrington,"_ the book responded instantly. _"The Warrington family has been feuding – unofficially of course – with the Boles for a few years now. Broom-grade wood production, at first. Then it expanded after the Bole's landed the Betrothal contract the Warrington's wanted."_

A slow smile grew on Terry's face. "Two Target's, one spell."

 _"Excellent."_ His thoughts approved. _"Now. Targets of opportunity, if possible, and how to plan the fallout?"_

The Privacy field gave a warning _thrum_ as the most eccentric member of Ravenclaw strolled past, outright falling as her steps approached. His self-invented spell, the one providing himself and only himself with an illusionary conversation partner, shut down as well.

"Good luck, Terry Boot." Her half-present expression frustrated many Ravenclaws, but not he. Her demeanor after multiple incidents had not changed, which either meant her brain was damaged, or her entire method of interaction was an act. The former could be an opportunity of what the muggles called _idiot savant_. The latter was far more dangerous, a conscious, thinking mind that catalogued every offence, and remembered when distant opportunities arose. Boot assumed the latter based on one pertinent fact:

One did not simply "drift" into the House of Ravenclaw.

"Thank you," he returned a neutral smile to the blonde girl – no. _Woman_ now. She was growing up. They all were. Hence his current task. "Potions was never my best subject."

"The Blibbering Humdingers tell me there was an overabundance of guava berries in the Dungeons." A gleam of interest appeared in her eye, then faded almost immediately. The product of intense acting, or true eccentricity? "The Slytherins will have to be careful. Wrackspurts love to play with emotion when guava berries are plentiful."

Terry maintained his own mask, adding another point to the tally in his mind, the _special_ list keeping track of notable figures in Hogwarts. As she faded towards the stairs, he re-activated the Privacy field.

The book rose again, covers firmly shut. He remained silent himself, thinking. As he thought, the book slowly opened, bobbing in slow agreement. _"Removing the Betrothal contract through inhuming would financially ruin the Boles. Implicating the Warrington's for the job would force them to spend large sums to demonstrate innocence. Do we know how many such Contracts are currently in effect here?"_

"Ethelred makes it a point to check every year," Terry muttered. "Twelve total, three that will come to fruition at the end of this year. The Greengrass contracts will expire if the Malfoy fortune falls by thirty percent current holdings – I should ask Ethelred to check the stocks exchange. Their broker is weak to a good vintage. Pity he hates squibs so."

 _"Enough idle thought,"_ his logical half responded. _"Complete the plan, and prepare. DADA tomorrow, I need to master the Reducto, then make it look sloppy. Perfection is reserved_ _for Potter and Granger, not people like me."_

"Agreed." He ended the illusion. The textbook fell in a quiet heap, open to the same page he'd left it over an hour before. Diagrams needed to be made, locations where a quick enough wizard could drop a dram or two into suspicious cups. This was a puzzle.

Terry Boot loved puzzles.


End file.
